Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

This death
Is a declaration of independence.
I wait
In the closed room of her corpse
Which glistens and breathes, uncorrupted.
With the flare and smoke of my endless cigarettes
I could have travelled a long journey.
I have travelled a long journey.
Is it, as in a train,
I who am dead
And she, in agony, trying to draw me alive?

Can I make love to you, Euridice?
Not expecting you to move a muscle?
Necrophilia appals you.
Can I masturbate in sight of your body?
Love degrades more than death.

And she said, you must go ahead of me
And until the sun beats on you
You must not look behind,
Even though your forebearance be for nothing,
Even though I may not be following.

And once, I said to her corpse, promise me
If you feel the least stirring of life
You will move your hand, you will touch me,
If only my hand; and I will not touch you
But only allow whatever you wish to happen.
And I believe that her hand touched
My side, and it said, how thin you have grown,
And it stroked my side. And the dead hand stroked
My thighs and moved up, slowly, and her nipples
Were flowering, and I hoped that she wished
Me to enter her, and I did.  But I could not
Have done.   She is dead, dead.

And when she said, I can see a glimmer of hope,
There was a star,
But her death has so confused all logic,
I could not see if it belonged to any constellation,
If there were still constellations, only hidden
Behind the clouds of her eyes.
And looking at the star too intently
I covered it in darkness.